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DEDICATED TO 

THE LADIES OF VICKSBURG 

WITH THE SINCERE HOMAGE 
OF THE AUTHOR 




" Misa Lillie.' 



"Miss Lillie" 

A True Story of the Southland 

BY 

Frederick S. Mordaunt 

AND 

Gleanings From the Wayside 
of Hearts and Thoughts 



Chicago 

Christmas, 1908 

Issued for Private Distribution 






Copyrighted 

by 

F. S. Mordaunt 

1908 



"Miss LiUie" 



A True Story 



"You, Rastus! If ebber I cotch yer er pokin' yo' 
good fer nutin' tongue outern yo' brack mouf at 
dat chile ergin, I'll tek er stick an' plow de fuz 
offern yo' back. I'm gwine ter hab trubble wid yer 
yit, boy, 'deed I is, if yer don't larn what 'specter- 
bility is, an' larn ter treat yo' betters wid differ- 
dence." 

I was passing along one of the back streets of 
Vicksburg when the foregoing utterance attracted 
my attention to an old " black aunty," perhaps 
sixty-five years of age, who was leaning over the 
half-decayed fence that stood in front of a shack 
of a house which looked as though its best days 
might have been some time " befoh de wah." 

Glancing in the direction in which she had sent 
her ejaculation, I saw a diminutive darkey leaning 



against a tree, looking as meek as Moses, while 
coming toward the old woman was a bright-faced, 
golden-haired little girl, perhaps eight years old. I 
paused, involuntarily, to see what might follow. 

" De Lawd bress de chile," said the old darkey 
as little Golden Head came nearer; " yer looks jes' 
like er ray o' sunshine er breckin' fro' de clouds, 
so yer does. Yer ain't done fergit yo' old brack 
mammy, is yer? Yer comes ever' day jes' as reg'lar 
ter fro yo' arms 'roun'd de ole woman's neck an' 
tell 'er howdy, jes' same as yo' ma uster do, Gord 
love 'er!" 

I grew interested. I had heard so often from 
my people of the devotion, and in my early life 
had seen so much of this idolatry of these dear old 
black women for the children of their former mas- 
ters and mistresses, that somehow I was anxious 
to learn the story of something of this kind from 
the lips that, though they might speak crudely, yet 
could tell the story in their own true way. And 
thus it was that, a moment later, I was standing 
by the little gate that was swung open as the old 
woman grasped the child in her arms and covered 
her face with kisses. 




Aunt Sophie and Miss May. 



" You seem quite fond of the little girl," I ven- 
tured to remark, as the old woman paused in her 
osculatory exercise. 

" Fond of 'er/' replied she; " I love dis chile more 
'n if she war my own flesh. Dar ain't nuffin' gwine 
tech 'er fur ter hawm one o' dem pieces o' gold 
in day head if 'er old mammy's erbout. Git erway 
fum dar, Boze! Yer ole nose ain't good 'nuflf ter 
tech de shoes o' this heah angel." This last ejacu- 
lation was directed at a gaunt and hungry looking 
old hound that had come around the corner of the 
house and was seeking recognition at the hands of 
the child, 

"And who is the little one?" I asked. 

"Who is she, sah? Dat's all Fse got lef o' Miss 
Lillie. Dat's 'er baby, God bless *er sweet face an' 
afo' Miss Lillie died she done tuk dese old brack 
ban's in hern, an' er-lookin' up in my eyes, whar 
de tears done streaming fum like de water fum 
er sprinklin' can, she sez, 'Aunt Sophie, you'll tek 
keer o' my baby, won't yer?' An' I tol' 'er as how 
I would an' I'm er-trying my bes' ter do it, jcs' 
same 's if 'er ma wuz heah. 

" I nussed *er ma long afore she wuz big as Miss 



May, wat I got in my arms heah. De day Miss 
Lillie wuz borned de old cunnel — him wuz 'er paw 
— called me up fum de quarters, an' he sez, sez he: 
'Sophie, dar 's yo' mistus; I'm gwine give yer to 'er 
an* I want yer ter watch 'er more'n if she b'longed 
ter yer.' An' so I did. I uster nuss 'er in my arms 
till she got too big ter nuss, an' den I uster tote 
'er books ter school, 'bout er mile fum home. We 
all wuz livin' out on de plantashun den, 'bout six 
miles out fum dis town, an' de school house were 
'bout a mile down de road from we all's house. Dat 
wuz away yander afo' de army comed fru. I 
tel yer, sah, dem wuz good days, an' we wuz all 
jes' as happy as folks could be. De ole cunnel 
seemed like dar warn't none on 'em wat had mo' 
money, an' mo' bosses, an' mo' niggers dan him, 
an' dey all loved 'im more 'n anybody else. 

"An' all dem niggers jes' natchully wurship de 
very groun' Miss Lillie walkt on; dey jes' 'bout 
thought dar warn't nuffin' good 'nuf fer 'er. She 
uster come down ter de quarters an' de piccaninnies 
uster git all erbout 'er, look at 'er and dey'd bring 
out roas' taters on er fork an' giv' 'em to 'er, an' 



anythin else wat dey had. 'Twas all hern, sah; all 
hern, kaze dey 'lowed she war de queen. 

"Well, de way dat chile did grow war scan'lous; 
jes' like er gimpsun weed in de corner of er ole 
corn fiel'; and de fust thing I know'd de ole cun- 
nel 'lowed as how she gotter go 'way an' finish 'er 
book larnin'. She warn't gone more 'n four years, 
but seemed like more 'n ten — we alls missed 'er so. 

" Well, byemby she com'd ergin jes' as sweet an' 
natchul as only Queen Lillie — dat's wat de black 
chillun uster call 'er all de time — jes' as sweet an' 
natchul as she could be; an' fum de mawnin' she 
come'd in an' frowed 'er white arms 'round dis heah 
ole neck hit jes' seemed ter me ebery day wuz 
Christmus; din' seems like de sun shined bright 
ef we all didn't see 'er face de fust thing in de 
mawnin'; an' der warn't nary er teeter-bird in de 
hedges wat had er voice haf so sweet as hern. 

" I disremember how long 'xactly 'twere arter 
Miss Lillie comed home afore Mars Ervin comed 
'roun' dar an' 'gin pouring love in her ears. He 
war fum de norf, an' wuz a buyin' we all's cotton. 
I didn't nuver took much fancy fer Mars Ervin, an' 
somehow when he come smilin' 'round Miss Lillie 



I 'gin ter git oneasy-like; I ain't nuver knowed why 
I feel datter way, but I got kinder skeered an' 
oneasy-like, jes' same as er chicken does when er 
hawk 'gin sailin' 'roun' in de sky, or er frog does 
when er stump-tail moccasin 'gins crawlin' 'roun' 
on de edge o' de swamp. 

" I didn't nuver say nuffin' 'bout it to de ole 
cunnel, but when I said suffin' 'bout how I felt ter 
Miss Lillie, she jes' f rowed 'er arms 'roun' me, an' 
lookin' in my face wid dem great big blue eyes o' 
her, she said as how I didn't 'xactly understan' it. 
Mebbee I didn't, but fum what I seed arter dat, an' 
when I looked at dat moun' over yonder what de 
cedars seems all de time tryin' ter bend dar heads 
down an' kiss, I got er s'picion dat I did. 

" Hit went on like dat fer some time, an' den one 
day dey had er gran' weddin' up to de big house, 
an* Miss Lillie an' Mars Ervin stan' up dar in de 
parlor, an' de preacher he ax 'em would dey hab 
one 'nuther fer good an' all de time, an' dey say dey 
would. When he ax Mars Ervin would he love 'er 
an' keep 'er an' tek keer o' 'er when she war sick 
or well, an' he 'lowed he would, hit jes' seemed 
ter me as how he warn't tellin' jes' 'xactly de truf, 



an' I 'lowed ter mysef as how he better, lessen dar 
'd be trubble wid de ole cunnel, fur he sartinly wuz 
wrapped up in dat chile — not jes' for 'er sweet sef, 
but I 'spect 'twuz kaze she war de dead sper't o' 'er 
ma, what died some time afore dat, an' seemed like 
de ole cunnel mos' broke his heart er mournin' fer 
'er; an' he uster sit an' talk ter Miss Lillie 'bout de 
time when he'd see 'er up yander 'mong de angels. 
"An' den Mars Ervin took Miss Lillie up to de 
norf, whar he say he want his folks ter see 'er. 
Seemed like he more proud o' her than we all wuz; 
but he warn't, kaze as how he couldn't be. Dar 
warn't much sunshine roun' we all's house arter 
Miss Lillie lef us; jes' seemed like de ole place 
done turn inter er graveyawd, an' dar warn't nufifin' 
'bout it like dar uster wuz. De birds didn't nuver 
come an' sit in de cedars, nigh de sittin' room win- 
der, an' sing all day long; de grass didn't seem ter 
grow so green on de lawn in front o' de house; de 
roses didn't seem ter hole up de heads an' look 
bright like, an' de big draps o' dew what fell on 
*em in de mawnin' looked jes' like great big tears 
er standin' on dey cheeks, 'stead o' lookin' like 
diamon's on er piece o' welvet, like dey uster when 



she'd go out in de mawnin', afore de sun wuz up, 
an' pick er bunch on 'em ter put by de ole cunnel's 
plate, so's dey'd look kinder cheerful like when he'd 
come down fo' breakfus'. An' ole Boze dar, dat 
same ole houn', uster lay 'roun' onder de winder o* 
de room whar she uster sleep, an' howl an' moan 
mos' all night, 's though he know'd de sarpent done 
cotch de dove, an' he jes' er tryin' ter tell we all 
'bout it. I knowed it, dough, kaze I sed so ter 
Torm when he 'lowed ole Boze war howlin', kaze 
he war too lazy ter walk 'roun', an' he want some- 
body ter come an' walk 'roun' fer 'im. But I 
know'd ole Boze better 'n Torm did, kaze he an' 
Miss Lillie growed up tergether, right tied ter my 
aprin' string. 

" Well, de time didn't do nuffin' but drag erlong 
fer 'bout two years. De fus' year de ole cunnel 
uster git long letters fum Miss Lillie, an' he uster 
tell me dat she war gittin' 'long so nice wid dem 
folks up dar in de norf, an' dat she comin' home 
byemby ter see we all. But she didn't nuver say 
when byemby wuz er comin'. An' den de letters 
'gin ter drap ofif, an' wat did come wuz shorter an* 



sorts solum like, an' 'peared ter me dat I could 
mos' see places on 'em whar tears done fell. 

" Dey didn't nuver say nuffin' 'bout Mars Ervin, 
nutter, an' de ole cunnel 'lowed as how dat wuz 
funny, an' he didn't 'xactly understand it. An' it 
went on dat er way fur 'bout er year, an' den one 
day dar corned er letter wat almos' broke de ole 
cunnel's heart. 'Twarn't more 'n er few words, 
but it seemed ter soun' jes' like de music wat yer 
hears at er funeral, an' it made my heart drap like 
er lump o' lead. Hit jes' said: ' I'se er comin' 
home ter die, an' ter be buried on de hillside by 
de ole cedars, whar de mockin' birds sing ebery 
day, 'longside my angel mudder, an' whar de sun- 
shine kin kiss de vilets wat will grow arter erwhile 
over bofe on us.' 

" 'Twarn't no use er tryin' ter comfort de ole cun- 
nel den, sah, fer he jes' sot an' rock'd hesef to an' 
fro wid he face in he ban's, an' hes white bar 
lookin' like de snow. An' jes' seemed like he didn't 
want ter live no longer. An' he nuver move out'n 
he char fur two long days an' two long nights, an' 
when de lamp on de table frow'd its pale light 'roun' 
de room, seemed like it failed on nuffin' 'ceptin' 



de gose o' ole marster, an' dat he war only waitin' 
fer de call ter go an' jine Miss Lillie's ma on de 
odder side o' de ribber. 

"An' den Miss Lillie corned home; ole Torm 
fotched 'er home fum de kars in de kerrige, an' 
when he drove up in front o' de house I went out 
ter meet Miss Lillie. Torm kinder lookt at me 
sorrerful like afore he open de kerrige doo', an' 
said, kinder sorf like: ' Sophie, 'tain't Queen Lillie 
wat's comed home, hit's 'er gose'. An' den he open 
de doo' an' I mos' had ter carry 'er in de house, 
she so weak an' trimblin' like. De ole cunnel war 
in de sittin' room, kaze he so ole an' bin grievin* 
so much he too weak ter git up an' go ter de front 
doo' ter meet 'er. An' when I tooked Miss Lillie 
inter dat ar room he jes' look up an' de tears jes' 
er crowdin' one 'nuther outen his ole eyes, an' he 
couldn' speak er word, an' she jes' went over ter 
whar he wuz er sittin', an' sinked down onto 'er 
knees right in front o' him, an' frowed 'er arms 
'roun' hes neck, an' laid 'er head on hes bres', an' 
jes' say as how she war so tired, so tired. 

" 'Twar in de ebenin' den, an' de sun war jes er 
creepin' down in de wes', an' de gold lines peeped 




Home Coming of Miss Lillie. 



fro' de clematis wat growed 'roun' de winder, an' 
failed ercross de room right whar dey wuz, an' 
seemed ter shimmer like on de silver har* o' de ole 
cunnel, an' ter kiss de white, pale face o' dat chile, 
jes' like Gord war puttin' Hes blessin' on de angel, 
an' pourin' Hes 'nointment on 'er afore He called 
'er up ter Him, whar she wouldn't be tired no mo'. 
I never seed sucher pictur' in all my horned days, 
sah, 'deed I didn't, an' I knowed right den dat we 
warn't gwine to have Miss Lillie long, an' dat de 
Lawd done made up His mind dat dis heah world 
warn't no place few er angel like dat, an' he dun 
need 'er up dar in Heaven, whar she b'long sho' 
'nuflf. 

" Hit jes' seem fum dat minit like she gwin' right 
erway fum us ergin, sah, goin' right erway fum us 
ergin on er journey dat she warn't nuver comin' 
back fum. Ebery time I lookt in 'er face I could 
see de fros' don' tech de lily, an' 'twar passin' erway. 
De sprin'time wuz gone fum 'er life, an' dar warn't 
no mo' flowers bloomin' fer 'er dar, an' de sorrer 
seemed ter be jes' er moanin' fro' 'er heart, like de 
wind moans fro' de pines when de winter comes. 

"'Twar de nex' week when de doctor tole de ole 



cunnel dat Miss Lillie war gwine ter lef us, an' I 
stood 'longside de bed er holdin' one o' 'er hands, 
an' de ole cunnel wuz down on hes knees on t'other 
side o' de bed, an' er sobbin' mos' like hes heart 
would break. An' Miss Lillie jes' reached over 
t'other han' an' laid hit sorf an' gentle like on de 
ole white head, an' say, her voice low an' sweet, 
er-soundin' mos' like er angel's song er comin' fro' 
de clouds straight fum heaven, she sez: ' Doncher 
cry, faddeh, I know hit's hard fur yo' an' me ter 
say good-by, but 'twon't be fur long. We gfwine 
ter meet ergin over yander, whar we kin bofe on 
us lay our heads on de breas' o' de blessed Saviour, 
wid mamma, an' whar we won't nuver have no mo' 
trouble an' no mo' tears. I'se tried so hard ter be 
brave an' bar all de trouble w'at He hab pleased 
ter put 'pon me, kaze He knows bes'. I don't want 
yer ter think hard o' Edward (dat war Mars Ervin 
she war 'ludin' ter den), kaze 'twarn't no fault o' 
his'n, I guess. When he tuk me 'way fum heah 
he thought he loved me, an' I guess he tried so 
hard fer er year ter be good ter me, an' den he 
went erway, 'thout sayin' er word, 'ceptin' leavin* 
er note sayin' as how he warn't comin' back no mo*. 



'Twarn't hes fault, I guess; I 'spec' as how I warn't 
good 'nuff, an' bright 'nuff fer ter please hes folks 
up dere in de norf, an' he muster got 'shamed o' his 
little girl wot he brot fum de souf. But I want yer 
ter promise me dat you'll sen' fur my little May, 
my precious baby, wat I had ter lef up dar when 
I comed home ter die. Oh, hit seems so hard ter 
die 'thout my baby's arms 'roun' my neck an' 'thout 
havin' er good-by kiss fum 'er baby lips, when I'm 
gwine on sech er long, long journey. Tell 'er when 
she gits older dat 'er mother's las' bref wuz er 
blessin' fer 'er, an' say ter 'er as how she mus' be 
er good girl an' git ready ter meet me over yander, 
in de city wid de pearly gates an' de golden streets, 
whar we will see an' know each udder ergin.' 

"An' den she looked up sorter pleadin' like in 
my face an' sed: 'Aunt Sophie, you'll tek keer o' 
my baby, won't yer?' Jes' like I tole yer erwhile 
ergo. 

" De ole cunnel nuver say er word, but she knowed 
his heart wuz jes' so full o' grief dat he couldn't 
speak; hes cup o' sorrer war runnin' over sho' 
'nuflf. 

"And den she nuver speak no mo', but waited 



jes' as quiet an' gentle while de stream o' her life 
flowed on ter de verge o' de great sea o' 'ternity. 
Dar war er smile o' peace an' contentment on 'er 
face, an' I knowed as how de Lawd had done dipped 
Hes finger in de incense o' glory an' 'nointed 'er 
soul. Hit didn't need no purifyin', fer 'twar puri- 
fied when she war horned; life hadn't been sweet 
to 'er an' I could see fum dat holy smile dat lit 
up 'er angel face dat 'er soul was rejoicin' at de 
change dat wuz er-comin'. 

"An' in 'bout ten minutes hit camed. She lips 
jes' moved so quiet like, pernouncin' some words 
we couldn't make out, an' den dey parted so peace- 
ful like wid a smile dat seemed ter reflec' de glory 
dat 'er soul wuz catchin' fum away oflf, an' den dem 
big, sof blue eyes closed slowly, an' wid jes' er 
little flutterin' sigh she went ercross de great ribber 
an' foun' de peace dat didn't bide wid 'er in life. 

"An' jes' as dat white spirit winged away fum 
de body an' lef us on'y de house o' clay w'at it been 
bidin' in while 'twar on earth, de ole cunnel stopped 
hes moanin' an' wuz so silent an' still like. Er few 
minutes arter dat de doctor tech 'im on de shoulder 
an' say, serf an' low, like he war feered he gwine ter 




iJeatli ol' Miss Lillie. 



wake up de angel fum de long sleep what she gone 
inter, ' Come, cunnel, yer mus' go an' res'.' But de 
ole cunnel didn't mek no answer, an' den we lif 'im 
up, an' de white head jes' drap down on he ches' an' 
hes han's hung limp by hes side, an' den we 
knowed dat de two spirits what had loved each 
other so much in dis life had done jined han's er 
minit afor* an' gone tergether ter meet Miss Lillie's 
ma, w'at bofe on 'em been grievin' fer so long. 

" Dat's been er long time gone, sah, but if you'll 
step over dar whar you see dat bunch o' cedars 
growin' on de slope, w'at faces toward de wes', 
you'll see free moun's whar we done laid de cunnel 
an' Miss Lillie 'long side o' 'er ma. An' when de 
sun sets in de ebenin' hit seems ter fall softer dar 
dan anywhar else, an' seems ter be er richer gold 
color; an' de grass grow greener dar, an' de vilets 
blooms sweeter, an' de birds sits in de cedars ebery 
ebenin' an' sings dar sweetest little vesper songs, an' 
de whipperwills call so mournful like, 's though they 
knows er angel's sleepin' dar. 

'"Twarn't more 'n er week afore Miss Lillie's 
cousin, dat's Mars George, w'at's 'er lav^ryer in dis 
heah town, and' w'at 'tended to all de olc cunnel's 



business, went ter de norf an' brung Miss May heah, 
and she' bin livin' wid 'im ebber sence. An' all Vat 
de ole cunnel had b'longs ter her, an' dough she 
mighty rich an' mighty purty, she don' nuver forgit 
'er ole brack mammy w'at nuss 'er ma, an' nuss 'er, 
too, an* keered fer 'er till 'bout er year ergo." 




ffKi^ 



Part II 



Gleanings 

From the Wayside of Hearts 
and Thoughts 



Selected at Random 

BY 

F. S. M. 



"A TOAST TO DIXIE " 

By Thos. Arnold. 

(Dedicated to his friend, Frederick S. Mordaunt.) 

Tho' war's dread dogs are chained at last, 
And arms are stacked, and bugle blast 
Is heard no more upon the field, 
Bidding the boys in gray to yield; 
Though years have flown since in the dust 
A nation's name and hopes were thrust. 
And all her sons gave up their fight. 
Completely conquered; still tonight 
I pledge my love to " Dixie." 

I could not come from that fair clime, 
"Where mocking birds keep rhythmic time 
To bubbling springs, whose liquid song 
Makes music sweet the whola flay long; 
Where white magnolias, kissed with dew, 
Distill their fragrance and no true 
Man lives who does not learn to love 
The pure and sweet, and never prove 
Untrue in aught to " Dixie." 



There's not a name beneath the skies 
That more to southern heart implies 
Of constancy and beauty, too, 
Of all things that are pure and true. 
There's sweetest magic in the word 
That touches such a tender chord, 
And bids the heart throb once again 
To that revered and sacred strain; 
God bless our own dear " Dixie." 

I trust I act no traitor's part 
Because within my loyal heart 
I hold her name a hallowed theme 
Of very reverence. I but deem 
You all her slaves, so fill each glass, 
And let a love-born token pass. 
So be you blue or be you gray, 
Let us tonight in chorus say: 

"W© drink the health of Dixie." 



"GO TO anr father " 

"Go to my father," was all she said; 
She knew that I knew her father was dead, 
She knew that I knew the gay life he had led, 
And she knew that I knew where he was when 
she said 

" Go to my father." 



TBS ZmrSSTZOATOS 

I 

Yes, I'm a vegetarian (between meals, understand) ; 
I'm proud to be Included with the " no-llfe-taklng " 

band. 
Instead of eating creatures that have hoofs or claws 

or wings 
Or shells or fins, I'd rather dine on cabbages and things. 
Ah, yes; in theory, at least, this notion Is complete. 
But when I'm hungry, — hang your greens! I've got to 

have some meat. 

II 
I am a mental scientist (when I am well and strong); 
It's such a lofty pleasure just to know that I belong 
With those that do not have to take those nasty little 

pills. 
But through the strength of thinking things can banish 

all their ills. 
Ah, yes; the mind is everything; but, mind you, wheri 

I'm sick, 
A good, old-fashioned doctor comes to my house double 

quick. 

Ill 
In politics, you can infer, I'm independent quite 
(When there is no election near). I stand for truth 

and right. 
I care not what the label is, it's all the same to me: 
I'm not the sort of man to wear a party collar. See? 
It's principle I'm after; yes, sirree; that's it. But, wait: 
Election day I always vote the same old ticket 

" straight." Nixon Waterman. 



"THE WEED AM-D THE BOSE " 

A little weed grew at the foot of a rose, 

They both breathed the soft summer air; 

The little weed sighed when it looked at the rose 

For the rose was so tall and fair. 

At sunset the little weed tremblingly spoke 

And told of its love for the rose, 

But the rose did not hear, for the language of weeds 

Is a language a weed only knows. 

Then the little weed wept, bathed the fair rose's feet, 
The rose was refreshed for the night; 
The song of the morning birds brought it to life 
And it lifted its head to the light. 

And later it grew, its green leaves spread wide 
Till they shut out the sunlight and air. 
And the little weed died at the foot of the rose 
And the rose never knew it was there. 



"OFTEir OF AV EVENINa DBEABY." 

With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe. 
Written from a past experience, March, 1903. 



Often of an evening dreary, 

while she's sitting 

weak and weary, 
With her eyes Intently 

wandering, from her 

caller to the door, 
Suddenly there has come 

a flopping, one by one 

and without stopping 
As of something gently 

dropping, dropping on 

the upper floor — . 
" 'T'is pa's shoes," she said 

explaining, " dropping 

on his chamber floor — 
Only that and nothing 

more." 

II 
When upon the gate post 

leaning, without 

thought or hidden meaning, 
She had let the neighbors 

see her, and go 

home and talk it o'er — 
As that gate was dully 

creaking, naught 

she knew what 

they were speaking 
•Till the news came, 

slowly leaking, leaking 

'round her more and more, 
" 'T'ls a go " — they fondly 

uttered, speaking 

though they knew no more, 
" We have seen it long 

before." 



Ill 

Vainly did she oft deny 

it — " But a senseless 
little 11© if— 

Yet they laughed In 

meaning fashion and 
her men friends all 
got sore — 

One by one they were 

retreating, even tho 
she kept repeating 

And at every meeting — 

meeting, where 'twas 
such a bore — 

"'T'is not true" she kept re- 
peating — " please believe 
me, I implore — 

We are friends — and nothing 
more." 

IV 

Then the maiden, sitting 
lonely, thought 
how different now 
if only. 

She had stayed home from 
some parties and 
some theatres galore. 

He had gone — for she had 
told him, 
she's his friend 
but nothing more. 

And she knew from 

past reveallngs, 
other " friends " had 
flown before, 

And they came back 
— never more. 



WBAT IS TEE USB? 

What l3 the use of It all? I said 

As we sat in the argent afterglow. 

All are dying who are not dead, 

And unto the end it will be so. 

Love, and the one you love will pass 

In blooming beauty, some dark mid-day, 

To fatten the grave worms under the grass. 

Yet this is a jolly old world you say! 

Build, and the Temple you build will fall, 

Frieze and pillar and altar stone. 

Over its ruins will reptiles crawl. 

And the ivy wave in the winds that moan. 

Work, and the gold you work to win, 

That you toil and struggle and worry to save. 

Is spent in folly and shame and sin. 

When you are dust in a dreamless grave. 

You may capture the laurel leaves of fame, 

Where they bourgeon out of the blood of men. 

Conquer a nimbus for your name 

By the magical power of the pen. 

But the garlands of glory will pass away 

And thy name be lost in the dim dumb years. 

Where are the heroes ere Adam's day. 

Their flaming thoughts and their flashing spears? 

They prate of a phantom world afar 

Beyond the mold and the marble urn, 

Beyond the fire of the furthest star 

Where life is immortal and love eterne. 

But I am no dupe of their priestly dreams, 

They know of nothing that is to be. 



1 



The light that out of their heaven streams 

Is the selfsame light that shines on me! 

I hear the voices they liear and I 

See every sign that they behold! 

But dumb as death is stainless sky, 

Invisible are the gates of gold. 

Through the sum and sweep of the countless years 

Humbly at many a countless shrine 

Men and women have shed their tears 

Or quaffed to the lees communion wine. 

They have stormed the sky with their passion cry, 

For hope, or justice or mercy liere. 

Prayed that their darlings might never die, 

Prayed with many a sob and tear. 

But never a gleam of glory fell 

In splendor athwart the altar stone, 

And nothing was heard but the passing bell 

Smiting the air with its awful tone. 

Folly! for never an answer came. 

And never an arrow was turned away; 

It sped to its beautiful mark the same 

Whether they prayed or scorned to pray. 

From cradle to coffin we struggle and seek 
'Till the fugitive years of our lives are past; 
And whether our lot be blessed or bleak 
We are tossed like dogs to the worms at last. 

What is the use of it all I say. 
Why are we brought from the blank unknown 
To weep and to dance through the live long day 
That drifts us under a burial stone? 

— Will Hubbard Kernan. 



. . . And yet the compensations of calamity are 
made apparent to the understanding also, after long 
intervals of time. A fever, a multilation, a cruel dis- 
appointment, a loss of wealth, a loss of friends 
seems at the moment unpaid loss, and unpayable. 
But the sure years reveal the deep remedial force 
that underlies all facts. The death of a dear friend, 
wife, brother, lover, which seemed nothing but 
privation, somewhat later assumes the aspect of a 
guide or genius; for it commonly operates revolu- 
tions in our way of life, terminates an epoch of in- 
fancy or of system which was waiting to be closed, 
breaks up a wonted occupation, or a household, or 
style of growth of character. It permits or con- 
strains the formation of new acquaintances, and the 
reception of new influences that prove of the first 
importance to the next years; and the man or 
woman who would have remained a sunny garden 
flower, with no room for its roots and too much 
sunshine for its head, by the falling of the walls and 
neglect of the gardener, is made the banian of the 
forests, yielding shades and fruit to wide neighbor- 
hoods of men. — Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



" Always remember this all your life, no matter 
what happens to you: a man is never defeated until 
the very last shot is fired. 

"And remember this, too: that even if he is de- 
feated, he is not beaten, provided he has done the 
very best he could and has never lost heart." 



WOMAV 

Tnidltlon Says There Was a Boaroltr of Solid Xlementa 
at tbe Time of Eer Creation 

At the beginning of time, Twashtri — the Vulcan 
of the Hindu mythology — created the world. But 
when he wished to create a woman he found that he 
had employed all his materials in the creation of 
man. There did not remain one solid element. 
Then Twashtri, perplexed, fell into a profound 
meditation. He roused himself as follows: 

He took the roundness of the moon, the undula- 
tions of the serpent, the entwining of climbing 
plants, the trembling of the grass, the slenderness 
of the rosevine and the velvet of the flower, the 
lightness of the leaf, and the glance of the fawn, the 
gaiety of the sun's rays and tears of the mist, the 
inconstancy of the wind and the timidity of the hare, 
the vanity of the peacock and the softness of the 
down on the throat of the swallow, the hardness of 
the diamond, the sweet flavor of honey and the 
cruelty of the tiger, the warmth of fire, the chill of 
snow, the chatter of the jay and the cooing of the 
turtle-dove. He united all these and formed a 
woman. Then he made a present of her to man. 

Eight days later the man came to Twashtri and 
said: 

" My lord, the creature you gave me poisons my 



existence. She chatters without rest, she takes all 
my time, she laments for nothing at all, and is 
always ill." 

And Twashtri received the woman again. 

But eight days later the man came again to the 
god and said: 

" My lord, my life is very solitary since I re- 
turned this creature. I remember she danced before 
me, singing. I recall how she glanced at me from 
the corner of her eye, and she played with me, clung 
to me." 

And Twashtri returned the woman to him. 

Three days only passed and Twashtri saw the man 
coming to him again. 

" My lord," said he, " I do not understand exactly 
how, but I am sure the woman causes me more 
annoyance than pleasure. I beg of you to relieve 
me of her." 

But Twashtri cried: "Go your way and do your 
best." 

And the man cried: " I cannot live with her!" 

" Neither can you live without her," replied 
Twashtri. 

And the man was sorrowful, murmuring: " Woe is 
me! I can neither live with nor without her." 
— Translated from an old Sanscrit book entitled 
" The Surging of the Ocean of Time." 



SIX WEEKS 

I 

Perhaps you have read the novel " Three Weeks " 

The marvel from cover to cover, 
Well, I am afraid the six weeks I stayed 

In Chicago were just such another. 

II 
Don't literally take the remark I just made; 

It's not true, no more is It right; 
For the times that I had were truly not bad, 

But highly respectable, quite. 

Ill 

I was privately wined and publicly dined, 

All seemed to think it a pleasure; 
For a visit that's fine, well — Chicago for mine- 

'T'is a memory I always shall treasure. 

IV 
I traveled by trolley, by train and by " L " — 

In cabs and an automobile; 
In fact, I tried everything but a balloon — 

I'm wondering how that would feel. 



V 
Do you think I could miss any date that I had? 

I was present at all that occurred, 
Excepting a wedding, and if there's one on 

I'll return if you just say the word. 

VI 

The Annex, the Stratford, the dear " C. A. A.," 

The Union, the Chinese caf6. 
The Hofbrau and Rector's, the old College Inn, 

Do you wonder I lengthened my stay? 

VII 

Elsie Jania, Aunt Mary, the Hour so Witching, 

The Matinee Pet, Otis Skinner, 
The Kokomo man who wandered from home. 

The "Widow," Ah! she was a winner. 

VIII 

Grand Opera, and even the Vaudeville shows — 

Every theatre came in for its share. 
The great Paderewski played Chopin and Bach 

And gave me a lock of his hair. 

IX 

This excitement, of course, had to end — 

So I packed with a tear in my eye, 
And I boarded the train of the Boston Baked Bean 

After many a solemn good-bye. 



X 

How much I appreciate all that was done 

For me by the people out West, 
Only time can reveal, but this I will say: — 
In my friends I'm especially blest. 

XI 

So it's back to the woods, the peace and the quiet, 

To the village of Newton Centre 
Where the Cobbler speaks French and the Butcher 
reads Greek, 

The Conductor shakes hands as you enter. 

XII 

They never heard of the Pompeian Room, 
They'd shudder at Mumm's " Extra Dry," 

But to lead such a life so free from all strife 
Well — we'll be 99 when we die. 

XIII 

Alas and alack, it was ever thus, 

But don't waste your pity on me; 
The ones that are free would like to be bound. 

And the ones that are bound would be free. 

XIV 
And since I've returned to the man I love best 

We've agreed upon one thing forever — 
That freedom Is all very well for a while. 
But our happiest times are together. 

— Ode by a Boston Lady. 



m 



JESUS USTTO MART 
On the Tenth Christmas 

By Chester Firkins 

' "Why came the angels, Mother dear, 

Upon the night when I was born?" 

" Perchance sweet Heaven was forlorn. 
Thou being here." 

'And were they beautiful to see? 

Say o'er the tale the shepherds told." 
"Ay, they were robed in shining gold; 
They sang of thee." 

' And was not that a wondrous thing — 
That holy choirs cried my birth?" 
"Nay; to all mothers of the Earth 
Bright angels sing." 

' But yet, thou sayest, from the skies 

Strange fires wreathed my brow with gold.' 
" Yea, miracles are manifold 
To mother-eyes." 

' When I within a manger lay, 

Why came great kings from distant lands?' 
" They did but kiss thy baby hands, 
Upon their way." 

' Didst thou not tell me that a star 

Shone on their path with wondrous light? ' 
" Oh, little son, 't is late; — good night — 
Dreams bear thee far." 

' Oh, Mother, there is in my heart 
A dream I may not understand." 
"Sleep; thou shalt roam in Samarcand, 
And Sidon's mart." 



'Nay, I shall hear the Heavens call: 
'O Son of God! Go forth! Redeem!'" 
" My son, that is indeed a dream 
Most strange of all." 

' They call me, Mother, when I sleep, 
Or when I wake, or when I play." 
("God, give me but another day 
My boy to keep.") 

'What say'st thou, Mother? Must I fare 
Alone into the darkness? I?" 
("He is so little, God, — I cry! — 
Earth's woe to bear! ") 

"Yea, I must follow; even now 

The angel voices speak my name." 
("Again, I see, the holy flame 
Doth gird his brow! ") 

'Yet, Mother, I am sore afraid; 
Oh, let me bide a little while." 
" Whom God hath called for earthly trial, 
His course is laid." 

' Mother, I see an angry throng; 

The face of Death upon me stares." 
" I give thee to the God who cares 
For weak and strong." 

' I go, — and yet, within my heart, 
The wholly human hunger cries." 
" Sweet, those who meet in Paradise 
Shall never part." 



OIiD AGE THOUOHTS 

By Victor Hugo. 
" The death of a just man is like 
the end of a beautiful day." 

" There are no occult forces. There are only 
luminous forces. Occult force is chaos, the lumi- 
nous force is God. Man is an infinite little copy of 
God; this is glory enough for man. I am a man, an 
invisible atom, a drop in the ocean, a grain of sand 
on the shore. Little as I am, I feel the God in me, 
because I can also bring forth from out of my chaos. 
I make books which are creations; I feel in myself 
the future life; I am like a forest which has more 
than once been cut down — the new shoots are 
stronger and livelier than ever. I am rising, I know, 
toward the sky. The sunshine is on my head. The 
earth gives me its generous sap, but heaven lights 
me with the reflection of unknown worlds. 

" You say the soul is nothing but the result of bod- 
ily powers. Why, then, is my soul more luminous 



when my bodily powers begin to fail? Winter is on 
my head and eternal Spring is in my heart. There 
I breathe at this hour the fragrance of the lilacs, the 
violets and roses as at twenty years ago. The near- 
er I approach the end the plainer 1 hear around me 
the immortal symphonies of the worlds which in- 
vite me. It is marvelous, yet simple. It is a fairy 
tale, and it is history. For half a century I have been 
writing my thoughts, in prose and verse, history, 
philosophy, drama, romance, tradition, satire, ode 
and song. I have tried all, but I feel that I have not 
said a thousandth part of what is in me. When I go 
down to the grave I can say, like many others, I 
have finished my day's work; but I cannot say I 
have finished my life. My days will begin again the 
next morning. The tomb is not a blind alley; it is 
a thoroughfare. It closes on the twilight to open on 
the dawn." 

The above says Houssayc, the poet's friend, is 
part of an impromptu speech by Victor Hugo in 
answer to some atheists, and at a time when Hugo 
showed no sign of old age. 



BXFEBIEKCZ: 

By Harry H. Kemp 

In the north, where leagues of forest sag beneath the 
plumy snow, 
I've worked with lurching-shouldered lumbermen; 
I've seen the small, gray fishing fleets beat out with 
lifting bow 
Toward the foggy coasts of Labrador again; 
I've plucked the purple, swollen grape beside the Great 
Blue Lake, 
And gathered pungent hops from off the vine; 
I have watched the water swirling in a clumsy ore- 
boat's wake, 
Laden down witli dusty riches from the mine; 
I've seen the mad steer plunge and fall beneath the 
sledge's stroke 
In packing-houses by the turbid Kaw; 
I have rotted three long months in a steel-barred Texan 
jail 
And felt the bitter mockery of law; 
I have fed the myriad-headed grain into the toothed 
machine 
Which tramples loud with wild interior feet; 
I have seen the Kansas plains carpeted with soft, young 
corn 
And garmented with glory of the wheat; 
I have camped in California by the shoreward-heaving 
sea. 
And have walked Manhattan's pavements all night 
long — 
But the lives I've lived and suffered gave me more than 
poverty: 
They paid me in the golden coin of song; 
They paid me in song's golden coin, those days were 
never lost; 
Tho' I had died an hundred deaths, it well were 
worth the cost, 
For I beheld America; Her sunrise kissed my brow . . . 
I learned to know the miracle of living Here and 
Now. 



THE DISAPPOINTED 

Ella Wheeler Wilcox 

There are songs enough for the hero 
Who dwells on the heights of fame; 

I sing for the disappointed — 

For those who missed their aim. 

I sing with a tearful cadence 

For one who stands in the dark. 

And knows that his last, best arrow 
Has bounded back from the mark. 

I sing for the breathless runner, 

The eager, anxious soul, 
Who falls with his strength exhausted, 

Almost in sight of tlie goal. 

Fon the hearts that break in silence. 
With a sorrow all unknown. 

For those wlio need companions. 
Yet walk their ways alone. 

There are songs enough for the lovers 
Who share love's tender pain, 

I sing for the one whose passion 
Is given all in vain. 

For those whose spirit comrades 
Have missed them on the way, 

I sing, with a heart o'erflowing. 
This minor strain today. 

And I know the Solar system 

Must somewhere keep in space 

A prize for that spent runner 
Who barely lost the race. 

For the plan would be imperfect 
Unless it held some sphere 

That paid for the toil and talent 
And love that are wasted here. 



OKESTSB— 

True story by Harry Hewett 

Rhyme by Ella Wheeler "Wilcox 

Sitting alone by the window, 

Watching the moonlit street, 

Bending my head to listen 

To the well known sound of your feet; 

I have been wondering, darling. 

How I could bear the pain 

When I watch with sighs and tear-wet eyes 

And wait for your coming in vain. 

For I know the day approaches 

Wlien your heart will tire of me. 

When by the door and gate I may watch 

For a form I will not see; 

When the love that is now my heaven, 

And the kiss that makes my life. 

You will bestow on another. 

And that other will be your wife. 

You will grow weary of sinning, 
Tho' you do not call it so. 
You will long for a love that is purer 
Than the love we two have known. 
God knows I have loved you dearly 
With a passion strong and true. 
But you will grow tired and leave me 
Tho' I gave up all for you. 

I was as pure as the morning 

When I first looked on your face, 

I knew I could never reach you 

In your high exalted place; 

But I looked and loved and worshiped 

As a flower might worship a star, 

And your eyes shown down upon me 

But you seemed so far, so far. 



And then, well then, you loved me. 
You loved me with all your heart. 
But we could not stand at the altar. 
We were too far apart. 
If a flower should wed a star. 
The star must drop from the sky; 
As the flower in trying to reach it 
Would drop on its stem and die. 

But you said you loved me, darling. 
And swore by the heavens above 
That God and his angels 
Would sanction and bless our love. 
Oh, I was weak, rot wicked. 
My love was pure and true. 
And sin In itself seemed a virtae 
If only shared with you. 

We have been happy together, 
Tho' under a cloud of sin. 
But I know a day approaches 
When my chastening must begin. 
You have been faithful and tender 
But you will not always be. 
And I think I had better leave you 
While your thoughts are kind of me. 

I know my beauty is fading. 

Sin furrows the fairest brow. 

And I know your heart will weary 

Of the face you smile upon now. 

You will take your wife to your bosom 

After you've turned from me. 

You win sit with your wife in the moonlight 

And hold her child on your knee. 



Oh, God, I could not stand it, 

It would madden my brain I know. 

And while you love me dearly 

I think I had better go. 

It is sweeter to feel, my darling. 

To know as I fall asleep 

That someone will mourn and miss me 

That someone Is left to weep; 

Than to die as I would in the future, 
To drop in the street some day, 
Unknown, unwept and forgotten 
After you cast me away. 
Perhaps the blood of the Savior 
Can wash my garments clean, 
Perhaps I may drink of the water 
That flows through pastures green; 

Perhaps we may meet In heaven 
And walk in the streets above. 
With nothing to grieve or part us 
Since our sinning was all through love. 
God says " Love one another," 
And yet he will send to hell 
The soul of a woman 
Because she loved and fell. 



And so in the morning he found her, 
He found her beautiful clay, 
Lifeless and pale as marble 
For the spirit had blown away. 
The farewell words she had written 
She held to her cold white breast 
And the buried blade of a dagger 
Told how she had gone to rest. 



KINES TO A FBIESn) 

I will now then my troubles unfold, 

You must know — it's been cold. 
But I'm sure when my story's been told 

Kindly treated I've been, you will say, 
By a man of the name of Mordaunt, 

Who is so — so gallant; 
A really, truly Lord Launt, 

Whose presence now makes us so gay. 
The morning was fresh — the wind blew — 

How it blew! the car through. 
And it started my "tic doloreux " 

Which I caught on last Saturday eve. 
So I said " Now please close up the door 

At the fore — Mr. Mor — " 
And he gallantly sprang to the floor 

And started my fears to relieve. 
So the front door he closed up so neat, 

Very neat — what a treat! 
And gravely returned to his seat, 

With a bow and a wave of his hand. 
Next he spoke to the man who could smoke — ■ 

Says " I'll choke — you old moke, 
I'm ashamed of you very rude folk 

Who ride in the cars In this land." 
All hail to Sir Mordaunt! we say. 

He so gay — all the way. 
May he prosper until he is gray 

Is the feeling of all now on board. 
May he get the plantation he craves, 

The horses — dogs — " tout le menage " 
And live on to a happy old age 

Our genial, good friend — Mr. Mord. — " 
-Written by Mrs. Shaffer in pencil on Y. & M. V. train, 
night of March 1st, 1900. 



"MAN 07 FAME" 

I have a friend named Mordaunt, 
A business man of fame, 
Who has a reputation from 
'Frisco down to Maine. 
His business — why a banker 
Upon the Seventh floor, 
A private office, telephones. 
Stenographers galore. 

In dress he has no equal; 
Changes by the score. 
Stylish suits, fancy vests. 
Three dozen, yes, or more. 
At entertaining — swell: 
A cook, a maid, a butler, 
A brindle bull as well. 

At present he is busy 

With some unlisted stock 

And friends from home — 

The " Sunny South," 

Who to his office flock. 

Now in all the years I've known him. 

This business man of fame. 

He never made less money. 

But he gets there just the same. 

Friends I've had, quite plenty. 

At least so I believed. 

It did not take me very long 

To see I was deceived. 

But there is one that never faltered. 

He's always been the same — 

The one that I refer to 

Is the gentleman of fame. 
-Dedicated to my friend Fred., L. S., Chicago, October 
20, 1906. 



WITHOUT HAKBZCAF 

From " The Story of the Gadsbys " by Rudyard Kipling. 

■Wliite hands cling to the tightened rein, 
Slipping the spur from the booted heel, 

Tenderest voices cry, " Turn again," 

Red lips tarnish the scabbarded steel: 

High hopes faint on a warm hearth-stone — 

He travels the fastest who travels alone. 

One may fall, but he falls by himself — 

Falls by himself with himself to blame; 

One may attain and to him is the pelf, 
Loot of the city in Gold or Fame: 

Plunder of earth shall be all his own 

Who travels the fastest and travels alone. 

Wherefore the more ye be holpen and stayed — 
Stayed by a friend in the hour of toll, 

Sing the heretical song I have made — 

His be the labor and yours be the spoil. 

Win by his aid and the aid disown — 

He travels the fastest who travels alone. 



•WITHOUT I.OVZ: 

A reply to Kipling, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 

Who travels alone with his eye on the heights 
Tho' he laughs in the daytime, oft weeps through 

the nights, 
For courage goes down with the set of the sun. 
When the toll of the journey is all borne by one. 
He speeds but to grief, tho' full gayly he ride, 
Who travels alone without Love at his side. 

Who travels alone without lover or friend, 
But hurries from nothing to naught at the end, 
Though great be his winnings, and high be his goal. 
He Is bankrupt in wisdom, and beggared in soul. 
Life's one gift of value to him is denied 
Who travels alone without Love at his side. 

It is easy enough In this world to make haste 

If we live for that purpose, but think of the waste! 

For life Is a poem to leisurely read. 

And the Joy of the journey lies not in its speed. 

Oh, vain his achievement, and petty his pride, 

Who travels alone without Love at his side. 



WHAT CHBXSTHAAS 9KEA1VS 

Men differ widely in their opinions of theology, 
but all agree that Christmas stands for marvelous 
powers at work in the world. 

First: Christmas signifies the divine love for the 
race. Men in sin naturally hate each other, and 
strive selfishly for gain or preferment. The idea of 
love for the race was absolutely new. " God so 
loved the world that He gave his only begotten 
Son." This love of God for men included the whole 
human family. Besides, it was practical — God so 
loved that he gave; it issued in sacrificing that 
which was precious for the good of others. 

Second: It stands for redeeming power. Men 
were in sin and helpless. The angel in the Annun- 
ciation said, " His name shall be called Jesus, for 
He shall save his people from their sins." And 
again, the angels said to the shepherds on the Beth- 



lehem plains, " There is born to you this day in the 
City of David a Saviour which is Christ the Lord." 
Thus in addition to love, Christmas signifies salva- 
tion for the human race. 

Third: It means peace. "Glory to God in the 
highest, on earth peace," were the first strains of 
the gloria in excelsis. And the world is gradually 
coming to see the value and the beauty of peace in- 
stead of strife. It means peace in the individual 
heart, then the nation, then the race. 

Fourth: Its joy is one of the distinguishing fea- 
tures of the Christmas spirit. There was joy in 
heaven and joy promised for the earth. The season 
today is characterized by gladness and good cheer. 

For once in the year, at least, the spirit of love 
and of peace and of joy possesses the hearts of 
men — the old and young; the great and small; the 
wise and the simple; the rich and the poor. 



A OEX^B'S QXrZSTXOH 

Mamma, is 
the sky a curtain 
hiding heaven from our 
sight ; are the moon and sun 
but windows, made to give the 
angels light? Are the stars bright 
flashing diamonds, shining from God's 
hand afar, and the clouds but vales of 
vapor drop ped from heaven floating 
there? If the sun's a window, mamma 

don't the an gels through It peep, ere t 

kisses earth at evening ; watching o er 

us while we sleep? Is the rainbow Just 

a ribbon gird Hng heaven and earth about 

or a railing made of roses, so the angels 

won't fall out? Is the singing in the 
tree tops songs of praise some angel 
sings, are the snow flakes of win- 
ter, feathers falling from 
their wings? Are the dew 
drops brightly shining in 
early morning hours, kiss 
spots left by elves and 
fairies where they slept 
among the flowers? 
Is the lightning 
rockets flying 
where the 
Prince of 
Glory 
comes 



and 
the thun- 
der but the 
rattle of the 
baby angels' 
drums? 

r ?? 



" VIVIAN " 

Vivian! Vivian! — how sweet the sound 
And, eke, no sweeter maid is found 
In all this world, so beauty-filled; 
Heav'n ne'er designed nor God e'er willed 
A breathing mortal so replete, 
From golden crown to dainty feet. 
With graces mild, heart, form and mind 
In her their brightest temple find. 

I sing not of the pomp of power, 

Croesus in his little hour; 

The flowery fields of summer's flush. 

The stormy snows of winter's rush; 

Nor art nor greatness tips my quill 

With language flt the soul to fill: 

I only speak of one I know 

Made perfect — of what makes her so. 

She has a form! — Oh! ask me not 
Its virtues: if't should be your lot 
To gaze upon it, you would die 
Content. As yet no vulgar eye 
Has measured its perfections; then 
The dreams of all that might have been, 
Compare not with her mind's delights, 
And Oh! her heart despair invites. 



\ 



None could describe it. It has ways 
That cheat the gloom of saddest days; 
An odor of immortal things 
Infestuous, around it clings. 
With such a form, with such a heart 
With such a mind from all apart, 
What wonder if my only lay 
About one simple woman play? 

Forget the world? — This be my plea, 
Vivian is all the world to me, 
Science and grandeur count as nought? 
More precious lores has Vivian taught. 
She taught me mercy's treasure-trove. 
And then, alas! she taught me love, 
Erstwhile I sighed for others' fame, 
To me now glory's but a name. 

Friend, let me whisper; would you be 
Blest with a thousand joys, like me? — 
Go seek some maiden young and kind, 
With angel form and mind refined. 
And heart a burgeoning blossom rare 
As fountains in the desert: Fair 
As fate then seemed, it still could be 
Not half so fair as Vivian! 

— ■" The Manager.' 



'I 



GOD'S STirvn'ASS 

To you who pray by night and day 
That Wealth may be your share 
And give no place to God's good grace 
I say beware, beware! 

The fattened purse can bless or curse, 
And this we know full well. 
Gold paves the street for idle feet 
And speeds them fast to Hell. 

For Hell is not that flnal spot 
That waits for sin's redress, 
It is the sphere all souls find here 
Who dwell in selfishness. 

Nor, hoofed and horned, by mortals scorned 
Do devils skulk below, 
But crowned with pelf, and love of self, 
Purse proud, through earth they go. 

They beggar toil, they seize the soil, 
(God's gift to one and all). 
They sing loud psalms and scatter alms 
That blight where e'er they fall. 

With greedy lust and might of trust 
They take the laborers' bread. 
Nor understand his lifted hand 
When offered alms instead. 

The thirst for gain blunts heart and brain; 
The gold-mad mind Is cursed. 
Oh, you who pray for wealth today 
Seek God's large wisdom first. 

No mortal mind alone can find 

The gold-paved path to right. 

With reverent mien, ask Powers unseen 

To lead with love's great light. 



^ 



TWO BZHlirB&S 

By Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 

There was a man. It is said, one time 

Who went astray in his youthful prime. 

Can the brain keep cool and the heart keep quiet 

When the blood is a river that's running riot? 

And boys will be boys, the old folks say, 

And the man Is the better who's had his day. 

The sinner reformed, and the preacher told 

Of the prodigal son who came back to the fold, 

And Christian people threw open the door 

With a warmer welcome than ever before. 

Wealth and honor were his to command, 

And a spotless woman gave him her hand. 

And the world strewed their pathway with flowers 

abloom, 
Crying, " God bless ladye and God bless groom." 



There was a maiden who went astray 

In the golden dawn of her life's young day. 

She had more passion and lieart than head, 

And she followed blindly where fond Love led; 

And love unchecked is a dangerous guide 

To wander at will by a fair girl's side. 

The woman repented and turned from sin, 

But no door opened to let her in. 

The preacher prayed that she might be forgiven. 

But told her to look for mercy in Heaven: 

For this is the law of the earth, we know, 

That the woman is stoned, while the man may go. 

A brave man wedded her after all. 

And the world said, frowning, " We shall not call." 



NEW YO&K, PBOII A SKTSCBAPEB 

By James Oppenheim. 

Up in the heights of the evening skies I see my City 
of cities float 

In sunset's golden and crimson dyes: I look, and a 
great joy clutches my throat! 

Plateau of roofs by canyons crossed: windows by thou- 
sands fire-unfurled — 

O gazing, how the heart is lost in the Deepest City of 
the World! 

sprawling City! Worlds in a world! Housing each 

strange type that is human — 
Yonder a Little Italy curled — here the haunt of the 

Scarlet Woman — 
The night's white Bacchanals of Broadway — the Ghetto 

pushcarts ringed with faces — 
Wall Street's roar and the Plaza's play — a weltering 

focus of all Earth's races! 

Walking your Night's many-nationed byways — brushing 
Sicilians and Jews and Greeks — 

Meeting gaunt Bread Lines on your highways — watch- 
ing night-clerks in your flaming peaks — 

Marking your Theatres' outpour of splendor — pausing 
on doorsteps with resting Mothers — 

1 have marveled at Christs with their messages tender, 

their daring dream of a World of Brothers! 



Brothers? What means Irish to Greek? What the 

Ghetto to Mornlngside? 
How shall we weld the strong and the weak while 

millions struggle with light denied? 
Yet, but to follow these Souls where they roam — ripping 

off housetops, the city's mask — 
At Night I should find each one in a Home, at Morn 

I should find each one at a Task! 

Labor and Love, four-million divided — surely the mil- 
lions at last are a-move — 

Surely the Brotherhood-slant is decided — the Social 
Labor, the Social Love! 

Surely four millions of Souls close-gathered in this one 
spot could stagger the world — 

O City, Earth's Future is Mothered and Fathered where 
your great streets feel the Man-tides hurled! 

For the Souls in one car where they hang on the straps 
could send this City a-wing through the starred — 

Each man is a tiny Faucet that taps the infinite reser- 
voir of God! — 

What If they turned the Faucet full stream? What if 
our millions tonight were aware? 

What if tomorrow they built to their Dream the City 
of Brothers in laughter and prayer? 



I have another life I long to meet, 
Without which life my life is incomplete; 
Oh! Sweeter Self, like me art thou astray- 
Trying with all thy heart to find a breast 
On which alone can weary heart find rest. 

— Boucicault. 












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